


Friends Like These

by Lady_Ganesh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Gen, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the mortuary is robbed, Molly has to rely on her friends. Thanks to emungere and tiggymalvern for betaing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends Like These

The break-in was bad enough. She was used to having CID officers all over the mortuary, but these were investigating, not looking to her for answers. Was she sure she'd locked the door and set all the alarms? Of course she had. It was _her mortuary,_ of course she'd secure it.

But they'd taken _her things._ Her lipstick (all right, she'd only worn it once, and it'd been an utter disaster, but _her lipstick_ ), the lab coat her mates had bought for a laugh (it had her name embroidered in sparkly thread), her bloody _Leica._

She'd lobbied for a year and a half to get that microscope. She'd solved cases with it. Even Sherlock had been impressed with it, and it took a miracle to do that.

Molly had never been so angry in her life. She spent most of the morning nursing her rage and trying not to watch over the detectives' shoulders too much. She was researching the .22 calibre Black Widow, easily concealed and with excellent sights and stopping power for its size (oh, of course it was illegal, but she could see herself pulling it from her purse and threatening the _bastards_ who’d stolen her things), when she saw Sally Donovan. She quickly hit the 'home' button on her browser and smiled her brightest, fakest hello. "Hallo, Sergeant," she said. "Why've you stopped by? Dimmock's on this case, and I'm afraid I can't do anything at the moment, my equipment’s either being examined or gone."

"Yeah, well," Donovan said, "why don't you and I go have a cuppa anyway?"

  
Sergeant Donovan took Molly away from the bustling coppers, the chaos, the insulting questions, and sat her down in a lovely Caribbean place she’d never visited, where a beautiful dark-skinned woman served her tea and a fantastic dessert with cream and fresh bananas and a generous dollop of rum.

"My mum used to work here," Donovan confided, "when she first came to England. Always makes me feel better to come back."

"She didn't stay here?"

"Went on and opened a shop of her own. But she's retired now. Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes," she said. "Thank you." Homicide, however justified, was seeming like less of an option. The gun was still tempting.

"We're a team," she said, "aren't we? We need to look out for one another."

Molly couldn't help smiling at that. "Thanks."

  
By the time Molly got back to the mortuary, Dimmock was sulking in the corner and Sherlock Holmes was grinning in triumph. "It's all the more obvious," Sherlock was saying, "that the primary target was _this_ corpse. They tossed the entire mortuary, true, but if you take a dispassionate look at the scene, you can see they took a clear path from here--" waving a precise finger at the doorway Molly was standing in-- "to _this_ corpse--" striding masterfully from the centre of the room to an empty table-- "and then made a bit of a mess on their way out. This was _planned._ Find the killer, we'll find the thieves."

"Ah, Molly," John Watson said. He'd been in the corner, doing a terrible job of hiding his smirk. "How are you holding up?"

"Better, thanks," she told him, which was the truth twice over.

  
Twenty-nine hours later, Molly was setting up the loaner instruments (mostly gained by coaxing, begging, and calling in favors) when Sherlock Holmes breezed back in.

Molly was well aware that Sherlock could be a bit of a tosser, but when he turned those perfectly shaped blue eyes on her, she could feel her heart pounding as her brain dissolved into Sherlock-flavoured mush.

"Here," he said, shoving a garbage bag at her. "No, don't open it here, don't be stupid."

She pressed her fingers into the bag and felt metal. Her heart skipped a beat. _The Leica._

"No sense in having things sit in evidence for months," he grumbled. "They’ve filed off the serial numbers, and the fence had split most of the expensive items up by the time I got to it. The bloody thing'd be out of date by the time you got it back. Now if anyone asks you, it's just the replacement model come early, yes? The rest of it will be in impound by morning."

"Of course," she said, trying not to squeal. "Oh, Sherlock--"

“Just be grateful Donovan sent that text.” And he was gone, in a dramatic sweep of coat.

"Thank you," she said to his wake, hugging the microscope to her chest. She knew how Donovan hated Sherlock. _Everyone_ did. She’d have to find a way to thank her without actually mentioning Sherlock’s name. She could manage that. It’d be the least she could do.

After all, she was the luckiest woman alive.


End file.
